


No Questions

by circ_bamboo



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circ_bamboo/pseuds/circ_bamboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castle, Beckett, and a post-success shower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Questions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Medie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/gifts).



> New fandom, woo!

They’d done it—of course they’d done it; they were amazing, both Beckett and himself, and yeah, Ryan and Esposito and Lanie had all helped too, but really, it was mostly because he and Beckett were awesome. They’d caught the murderer, as usual, and he’d managed to convince Beckett that they should go get dinner afterward. She’d laughed at him, and agreed, but insisted that he stop at home to change because, well, in the rush of catching the murderer, he’d forgotten that he was covered in someone else’s blood.

So Castle stood in his bedroom, while Beckett waited downstairs, chatting with Martha and Alexis who were supposedly on their way out, and stripped off his blood-stained shirt quickly. _Yuck._ And he liked that shirt, too.

Next came the t-shirt, also bloody, and when his fingers came away from his skin bloody as well, he realized that maybe he’d gotten bled on a little more than he thought. Oh well; it was the bad guy’s blood, anyway. He could jump in the shower, quickly, and be out in five minutes or less. Stripping off his pants, underwear, socks, and shoes—more blood; he might as well throw out the whole lot—he started the shower, checked the temperature, and jumped in.

 _Ohhh._ The one problem with the five-minute shower theory was that it never, ever happened. Every time he got in the shower, he remembered how _awesome_ it was to stand under the shower, and he’d stay stock-still for a good five minutes, just letting the water hit his skin. And then, of course, after he’d managed to relax, his mind would start working, rewriting the events of the day into fiction, storing them away for future use. So when he got under the spray, his mind blanked, and all that was left was, _Oh, shower._

He’d gotten about halfway into his normal shower routine—just at the part where he started reorganizing the day’s events—when he felt a blast of cold air against his side. He whipped his head around, eyes open and saw, well, pretty much the last thing he expected to see in his shower, _ever_ : Kate Beckett, only a few inches away from him, and wearing nothing but an amused half-smile.

“I thought they’d never leave,” she remarked. “Close your mouth, Castle.”

He hadn’t realized it was open, but obeyed her with a soft _pop_. “Beckett? What are you doing here?” he asked. Not his finest moment, but he was confronted with a _naked Beckett_ , and was he supposed to be witty and erudite? Yeah, sure, he’d seen it before, briefly, but it wasn’t the same. At all. This adrenaline rush was arousal, not fear for her life. “Never mind,” he said. “Stupid question.” Leaning forward, he kissed her, which was a _brilliant_ idea, other than the fact that he didn’t get to look at her any more. With luck, there’d be more time for that later.

“Castle,” she said, after breaking the kiss. “If you question this, so help me, I’ll sic Ryan and Esposito on you. _And_ Lanie.”

“No questions,” he agreed quickly, and raised his hands to her waist, tracing the curve from breast to hip. “So I should just assume that—”

“You’re supposed to be good at this,” she said, but gently enough that he couldn’t take even mock offense. “What do you think you’re supposed to be doing here?”

“Oh, I can probably figure it out,” he said, and bent his head to kiss her again. He slid his hands over her skin, starting to become damp with the warm water from the shower, and found her shoulder blades, sharp under her skin.

As he pressed his mouth behind her ear, licking beads of water and sweat from her skin, he felt her hands come up to his back and stroke gently. _A good sign_ , he thought, and nibbled gently along her collarbone.

It might have turned into a competition—who could get the other to react first—but he wasn’t going to play. He had absolutely no compunction against shuddering and sighing against her skin, even if she would give no quarter. She knew what she did to him, and he saw no point in hiding it. He was hard, fully aroused; had been since she stepped into the shower, and he cupped her rear end, pulling her hip against his erection. In retaliation—or maybe just because she wanted to; he wasn’t sure but certainly wasn’t going to question it—she dug her nails into his rear end, and he made a sound in the back of his throat.

Funny, though; he’d always thought, when he’d thought about it—which was rather a lot but he wasn’t going to admit that to her, not just yet—that she’d be bossier in bed. Or in the shower, as it were. Of course, right as he thought that, both her hands went to the top of his head and _pushed_. _Ahh, there’s the Kate Beckett I expected_ , he thought, and slid down her body until his mouth was level with her breasts. He smiled, licked his lips, and took the tip of one breast into his mouth.

She appeared to like that—he could tell by the pebbling of her nipple under his tongue as well as the dig of her nails into his shoulders—but she still didn’t make a sound. _It’s on_ , he thought, and sucked harder, gripping her hips.

It didn’t take more than a moment or two of increased suction before she was pulling his head off her breast and, palm flat against the top of his head, pushing him down farther. He sank to his knees and whispered, “Oh, _that’s_ how it is, huh,” before looking up, eyes wide. “That wasn’t a question.”

Beckett’s eyes were wide as well, pupils dilated, her hair a wet tangle around her head and her mascara and eyeliner starting to smear from the steam and water. He thought she’d never looked more beautiful, but then her lips twisted and she said, “I know, Castle. Now back to work.”

He’d been wrong. She was definitely more beautiful when making snarky comments at him. “Yes, ma’am,” he said to the crease of her hip. He found her hands, guided them to the handles set into the tiled walls of the shower—why else were they there?—and pressed her back into the wall behind her, fortunately heated. Dialing down the water spray itself until it was just a trickle running over her breasts and his head, he resettled his knees. This was going to hurt tomorrow but he didn’t _care_ , not one goddamn bit.

He ran a hand down her leg until he reached her calf, lifting it so her thigh rested on his shoulder, opening her to him. Inhaling, he drew in the scent of salt and musk and _woman_ , savored it like a fine wine or a perfect metaphor, and drew a finger down the seam of her labia. The muscles in her leg clenched on his shoulder, but she did not shudder, shiver, sigh, or moan. He rather thought that he’d like to hear her moan his name, even if she’d be calling out ‘Castle’ instead of ‘Rick,’ so he used that same finger to part her folds. Leaning forward, he pressed his finger deeper, found the heat of her body, just above her entrance, and followed with his tongue.

She tasted like—oh, God, he didn’t even _know_ how to describe it, and he’d described a lot of things in his day. Not so different from any other woman—he shied away from that particular path, as he was kneeling in his _shower_ with his face between Kate Beckett’s thighs and the _last_ thing he wanted to think about was the fact that there were other women in the entire universe. He could, of course, wax symbolic and say that she tasted like sweat and victory and authority and triumph, and she did taste of all those things, but she also tasted slippery and slick and salty and a little bit like New York City water, even though he had a filter on his shower head.

He delved in, found all the creases and folds and hidden corners, pushed his tongue into a point and tasted inside her—darker and slicker and sweeter there, at least in his mind—all the while listening for the sound of her control breaking. He slipped one finger, then two, inside her, pressing forward, and took her clit into his mouth, lips messy and wet with water and spit and her arousal.

When he rubbed the flat of his tongue over her, she jerked, ever so slightly, a bare movement of not more than a quarter of an inch against him. It was a success, though, and he smiled before curling his fingers inside her and sucking.

God, he could stay here for _ever_. Other than his knees, of course, which didn’t hurt, precisely, but he could feel the pressure and why was he thinking about his knees? He should be thinking about his tongue, which was swirling around _Kate Beckett’s_ clit, circling and pressing and tasting her, exploring the different textures of her, as he withdrew his fingers from inside her and pressed them back in.

Eventually, by the tiny movements of her body against him, he felt her breath speed up and her nails dig into his scalp—huh, he hadn’t noticed her hands on his head—and he sucked in a breath through his nose, full of the scent of her, and flickered the tip of his tongue against her, lightning-fast.

He felt her orgasm begin as her body clamped down around his fingers; her thighs pressed into his ears, and finally, she shook against him; one heel digging into his back as her fingers twisted in his hair. He kept his mouth on her, sucking gently, until her legs relaxed, and he heard her soft sigh, barely audible over the sound of the water.

He’d done it. He made Kate Beckett _come_ , and if he knew anything about Beckett and oral sex and women’s orgasms, it was a pretty good one, too. One corner of his mouth lifted in a smug grin, but he wiped the look off his face as Beckett pulled her leg off his shoulder and hauled him up to eye level.

She kissed him before he could say anything, and right as he was contemplating how he could get her out of the shower and into his bed, he felt her hand on his erection, stroking slowly. Her touch sped up quickly, though, and he was already so far gone from getting her off that he had to break away from her mouth and gasp, “Whoa, hold up there—I’m about to—”

“That’s the _point_ , Castle,” she said, and pulled him back.

 _All right, guess that isn’t going to happen_ , he thought, before his brain shut down entirely and his world narrowed down to Beckett’s mouth and her hand and the dripping of water on his shoulder—and then he couldn’t even feel her mouth or the water—and _holy shit_ —he was gone, coming all over her hand and her side and his stomach.

He blinked a few times as his vision cleared, and watched Beckett—wait, could he call her Kate now?—turn up the spray and rinse herself off quickly before stepping out of the shower stall as suddenly as she came in. “Clean yourself up,” she said, “and then we can get dinner.”

“Dinner,” he said, remembering at the last minute not to make it a question.

“Yes, dinner,” he heard her say as she disappeared into his bedroom.

He finished his shower in record time and got into his room, towel clutched around his waist, to see a fully-dressed Kate Beckett standing in front of his mirror, slicking her hair back into a ponytail. “Hurry up,” she said. “I’m hungry.”

He wanted to ask her—what was going on, was this going to happen again, what did it all _mean_? But he couldn’t, so he just said, “Okay.”

If it weren’t for her wet hair, he might have thought it was all imagined, but no.

Her ponytail taunted him all throughout dinner.


End file.
